No Other Symptom
by RisingMercury
Summary: Never in her life had she been this nervous. She could feel her nerves twisting and writhing with a wave of discomfort. How many more minutes were left? Just don’t think about it. Don’t think about any of it. One Shot.


**Title: **No Other Symptom  
**Author: **RisingMercury  
**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but my own insanity.  
**Author's Note: **This piecewas definitely an experimental one for me. I originally came up with this idea about two months ago, and since then,have stretched, pinched, pulled, and pressed it all. Finally, I'm laying it out to dry. And with that, I leave you to read. :)

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"We'll have him out in ten minutes, Mrs. Yorke."

"Van Zandt. It's Miss Van Zandt."

"Yes, of course. My apologies, Miss Van Zandt."

This might prove to be the longest ten minutes of her life. Maybe if she focused intently on a fixed spot, she could drown out her bleak surroundings. But here, even the drab, pale yellow walls are marked with endless black scuff marks of rebellion, of unmentionable mistakes.

Try not to look at that. Scan the place. Focus on anything else. Scan, scan, scan…The rigid man in the corner with the starched uniform could almost go unnoticed. He could almost wash into these very surroundings if it weren't for the occasional blinking of the firm eyes, signifying some form of life. A suffocating anesthetic stench filled the hollow hallway all of a sudden, or maybe it had been there all along. She swallowed again, attempting to ignore the irritable dryness in her mouth.

It was hard to tell now, but she tried to believe a long lost Liberty would have never let things escalate to this point. The Liberty that existed at some earlier stage in her life, before she had been replaced by a handicapped, wheelchair-fated imposter. She would have been steadfast. She would have done something…anything. But there were too many wasted "would have's" lingering in the air, littering her clarity and shaking her cool.

Never in her life had she been this nervous. She could feel her nerves twisting and writhing with a wave of discomfort. How many more minutes were left? Just don't think about it. Don't think about any of it.

Somehow, those screaming scuff marks on the walls were telling her this was going to be anything but easy.

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Immediately after the shattering car crash that would render her perpetually incapacitated, he dedicated himself completely to her. Sure, there were nagging bills to pay on the coffee table, but he was always there at her beck and call. Nurturing her back to health seemed like his one and only goal. The mere thought of being imprisoned to that anesthetic bed shook every block of solid strength she possessed.

But none of it ever fazed him. No, not JT. He was her rock. Always at her bedside preparing her favorite dishes, cleaning the house, decorating her surroundings with cheerful reminders to get better, wheeling her to therapy daily.

"There you are my beautiful _inamorata_. A dozen of the most gorgeous flowers the shop had, just for you."

"JT, do you have any idea how detrimental those are to my allergies? You should have asked me before getting them."

"Well, I wanted it to be a nice surprise for you. I'm sorry I didn't know I had to consult you for it first."

If only he had listened more. Maybe she wouldn't have recklessly shot her frustration at him so quickly; after all, she had never been one to easily placate her temper. At the end of the day, she knew he meant well, and that was all she could really ask. But somehow he still managed to slither right under her skin …

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"I'm sorry, Lib. I'm so, so sorry. I promise you it'll never happen again. That's not really who I am. You know that. It's just…stress."

Even if she had wanted to respond to him, she would not have been physically able. All words seemed to escape her entirely and she could only think of the night before.

"Please, please. Just give me one more chance, baby. You'll see how things will be different this time. You'll see. You've got to give me another chance….I love you so much."

_Love._ What a deceitful little word. Four simple letters, yet so complex in nature. It began to feel like an utterly foreign word and she wasn't sure she knew what it meant anymore. At one point in her life, she had known…at least, she had thought she knew. Love had meant that electrifying feeling she tried to swallow down whenever she was around him. Love had meant never wanting to tear herself from his comforting side. Love had meant feeling eternally safe. And subsequently, love had meant naivety.

Did love morph into something new with time? Did it wash away with time until nothing but a bitter aftertaste was left? And there it was again. That sickening motion rising in the very pit of her stomach…something thrashing violently within, a nauseating seesawing of sundry emotions. By no means did that feel like love. Profound repulsion, vehement fear, yes. Stinging love, definitely no.

"I don't know what I would do without you, Liberty. You're my everything." And with that single blow to her heart, anguished tears fell from his eyes.

Just when she was set on hating him, on doing something about this, he'd lean in cautiously and tenderly kiss the mottled bruises on her arm. How could this be the same person of last night? It all seemed like some twisted, nightmare. An inaccurate figment of her distressed imagination.

Until the next time when that wave of fury boiling in his fist came crashing down.

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Fractions. That is all it had taken. A fraction of the wrong word. A fraction of a simple second. A fraction of a deep-seated anger that festered and gurgled not far below the composed surface.

It all came rushing across the room at her, erratically lifting her crippled body from the chair, unremittingly slamming her against the plastered wall. Fierce fingertips sinking deep into her delicate skin, an incarcerating grasp rendering her completely vulnerable. Images and sounds transforming into a whirling, dizzying blur. And still, the splintered ferocity spewed from all directions.

All directions, all directions, all directions…

Crash, rip, tear. Shred, prick, swell. Lashing hysterics. Ruthless savagery. Futile attempts at escape.

The crushing of the coffee table beneath her. The millions of bursting shards of glass jutting into the open air, pricking, and then ripping mercilessly into her flesh. She didn't remember the table being there before, but it was there now – breaking her fall.

Was that her screaming out in anguish? Or was that actually him? She couldn't tell anymore. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stay oriented, to thwart from slipping into unconsciousness.

And suddenly she became aware of a warm trickling down the side of her face, as tiny droplets splattered casually on the light-colored carpet.

What was it going to be this time? Flowers? Jewelry? What would pay off the price of relenting forgiveness?

"I lost complete control, Lib. I was a maniac, but you've got to know that's not me. There's so much goddamn stress. So much pressure all the time! I just…just don't know what happened."

"You only have to take one good look at me to know what happened, JT."

"Don't give me that! I don't need your shit right now."

Spat out with such distain.

But then there it was. His deep sigh of repentance.

"We're good, you know? You and I…Lib. This hurts me, too. We just need to get past this rough patch." And gingerly, he would rest his head on her stomach.

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She did hate him. Hated him precariously with every blow of that hand, with every poisonous word shot her way. But every time he came back the morning after, beseeching her forgiveness, she couldn't help but see the messy haired boy with the innocent, vivacious heart she once knew in high school.

She never knew what would prove to be the ticking mark in unleashing his anger. What would ignite his short fuse tonight? Where were the symptoms? The warning signs?

And in a matter of minutes she could see the entire transformation take place before her. The writhing contempt foaming at the corner of his mouth and she could tell…he was ready to rip things apart tonight.

How long would the crazed enmity registered in his eyes take to travel down, down, down…through his pumping veins and into his fists once more?

No other symptom reverberated louder than those rage-ridden eyes. iThose eyes/i provoked the tiny hairs on her arms to stand on end – her sole flight response. It consumed him completely - this rage. Rage in its purest of forms; its primitive and brutal form. She needed desperately to believe this was all a mistake. Some high alpha male aggression that needed out; that it would all pass.

Maybe this really was how things worked. Maybe it was all a covert aspect of marriage women never addressed but always experienced; a given right of the husband.

No, no, no. It was all completely sick. Here she was, actually trying to rationalize all of this and_ justify_ it. Her stomach reeled inside her at the revolting thoughts. This couldn't be an accepted part of marriage. Somewhere along the lines, it had become the automatic response. A brash lack of judgment, he'd say. Still, she couldn't help flinching at his every touch.

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How such a tiny, almost invisible vessel of packed aggression had flourished into a full-blown obsession, she didn't know. Never saw it coming. She had never witnessed that kind of passion in his eyes. It was intoxicating in a way. She couldn't help but get lost in the very fury directed towards her, the very fury reflecting back in his eyes; there was something so beautifully enticing about that passion that it made her sick all over again. For a second…she had almost forgotten that passion was not passion at all. But instead, fury in a deceitful little disguise. Addicting violence wrapped up so neatly in false and empty promises of change. And it had almost fooled her.

"Maybe if we worked as a team, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"What is that even suppose to mean, JT?"

"Look, I'm sorry. That…that came out wrong, okay? I didn't mean it. I just wish things were _different._"

More and more she had begun slipping in and out of consciousness lightly. She could never fully remember the order of events. Maybe it was her mind's way of self-preservation – blotch the evidence, substitute the ambiguous memories with a dull, empty space. Missing gaps in the storyline. What time had he come home that night? How did she end up in her bed again?

Even though she couldn't recall the small details, the primary clues were all still there, untouched like a crime scene: the distinct, clinging scent of a brute struggle; a raw fat lip; a cut (or perhaps two) stinging above the left eyebrow; tousled objects laying carelessly around the room; the residue of blood, or sweat, or maybe both.

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The density of the air in these close imprisoning quarters weighed heavy on her. Every sound that escaped seemed amplified. Were her thoughts audibly echoing down these halls, too? Were they permeating those endless rows of crowded cells, broadcasting their secrets to every condemned soul here like a transit radio?

"Please open the gates for Prisoner 801625."

The starch uniformed man marched towards the gates, keys jingling rhythmically with his every step, the club of authority swaying swiftly back and forth at his side. The heavy metal bars clanked echoing through the narrow, claustrophobic halls, opening the only access to **him**. So this was it. As soon as she wheeled herself through those barred gates, to meet his guilt-ridden eyes on the other side of the glass, there would be no second chances. No back door exits. No room for even a sliver of a doubt.

"Ma'am. He's ready. You can go in and see him now."

Funny, it wasn't until now she noticed how very similar that somber shade of yellow, dashed on those walls, was to the color of the walls at home. Almost identical, she would even dare to say.

He blew it.

So the question was simple. Was she prepared and willing to sever that colossal bind that unified her and JT?

But her thought was interrupted by his eyes staring back at her.

"Liberty?"


End file.
